Henry's Morning

Henry Pratt threw back the duvet, farted, and mumbled "fuck it"
under his stale breath. His head ached and the thought of another
endless day in his crap job seemed almost too much to bear. His chronic
morning grouchiness was legendary in the Pratt household and a look at
the silent alarm clock sent his already black mood tumbling like a
drunk on a Friday night.
"Shit, fuckin' thing." He was late for work. Again.
He swung his chunky, hairless legs off the bed and shot a poisonous
look at sleeping wife. Her mouth gaped like a hooked fish, and her
rasping snores seemed loud enough to wake the neighbours.
"Fuckin' freezing," he said to himself, snatching yesterdays shirt
from the floor. A quick sniff in the pits revealed, in his opinion,
that it was just about good for another day. He shivered, shuffled
through the door, and almost turned an ankle on his layabout son's
space age Nikes. He bared his teeth, wondered how the little toe-rag
could afford them, then kicked one viciously down the stairs. And
watched helplessly, as it somersaulted, bounced off the bottom step and
careened into the phone table. Sending the phone, and a picture of his
smiling mother on Southend sea-front, crashing and tinkling to the
floor.
He winced, held his breath, and listened for signs of stirring from
the bedroom. Silence, then a single almighty snore and a whoosh of the
duvet as she shifted positions.
Tiptoeing to the bathroom, he gently closed the door and stood slumped
in front of the toothpaste spotted mirror. Henry scowled at the bleak
reflection; double chin, puffy watery eyes, and a comb over in total
disarray. He shuddered and reached for the toothbrush.
Even this mundane task turned into a minor drama as he mashed his top
lip painfully against the tap. Thin bright blood flowed in the swirling
water as he groped blindly for a towel.
With Joan's favourite fluffy yellow towel pressed to his throbbing
lip, Henry chanted an almost rhythmic "Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit.."
through gritted teeth. And it sounded pretty good, maybe he could stick
a drum beat to it and release it as a single. Better than some of the
crap on the radio.
After a quick run through with the comb, he pondered the blood spotted
towel. And knew, as sure as shit stinks, that this really would fail to
impress sleeping beauty. So he stuffed it to the bottom of the linen
bin and plodded downstairs.
He reset the phone, picked up the photo, and stared glumly at the
wonky frame and broken glass. He puffed his cheeks and glared at the
offending shoe. Its Red and Silver stripes seemed to be mocking him,
daring him to kick again. 'C'mon dipstick, care for another punt? see
if you can put me through the TV, or better still, the fish tank!
wouldn't that be fun?'
Although a half hour late, breakfast was a must. The last time he'd
tried skipping it, had been as a part of one of Joan's dietary fads. On
that glorious occasion he'd arrived at work, then promptly fainted.
Besides, ten more minutes wouldn't make much difference. He was wrong
of course, as the next fifteen were spent on hands and knees scooping
soggy cornflakes and milk from the shag pile.

Henry wheeled the ratty Honda from the garage, and eyed the overcast
skies with suspicion.
The bike refused to start.
A minute of frenzied leaping on the kick start, couldn't bully it into
life, and his pudgy face was flushed and furious inside the too tight
helmet. The sound of Victor's voice startled him.
"What!" he almost shrieked.
In Henry's opinion, Victor was a twerp. A jumped up know-it-all
tosspot, who he'd caught, on more than one occasion, oggling Joans
arse. They had barely spoken since a quarrel over the garden fence had
almost ended in fisticuffs. Victor had caught him shovelling cat crap
over the fence and on to his precious lawn.
"I said, what seems to be the trouble?" Victor repeated, his large
Adams Apple bobbing up and down.
"Dunno, wont start,"
Victor peered over Henry's shoulder.
"I say, aren't you suppused to turn the ignition on before trying to
start it?" The ghost of a grin forming on his thin lips.
"Er..yeah." Henry gawked at the key in the ignition, turned it, then
brought the bike to life on the first kick. He was grateful to the
tinted visor as he rammed it down, hiding his crimson features. Victor
sauntered off with a shake of his head and a nonchalant wave thrown
over his shoulder.
Henry glared daggers at his back, shot him the finger, and wobbled
away.

There was no surprise when ten minutes into the thirty minute trip, he
heard the gentle tap-tapping of rain on his helmet. He sighed and
pulled over, intent on getting his wet weather gear on sharpish. If he
took a drenching now he would stay wet all day, and given his current
mood, a cold and wet Henry would not a happy work mate make.
He clambered off the bike, and groped thin air where his back pack
should be. Bewilderment turned to irritation as he remembered placing
it on the kerb when he couldn't start the bike. Irritation turned to
out-and-out fury as the heavens opened. His teeth clenched and his face
grew hot, and he thought his eyes might pop onto his cheeks as he
bellowed an anguished "FUCK" at the injustice of it all.
He hopped on the spot, aimed an awkward kick at the bike, then watched
in horrified fascination as it teetered this way and that, finally
hitting the deck with a mirror smashing clunk.
He turned his face to the teeming sky, and brayed lunatic
laughter.

Despite being late, wet, and so cold that he'd lost all feeling in his
legs, his mood had lifted somewhat. He supposed it was the endorphin
rush from the manic chuckle fest a few minutes before.
He parked the the bike, and headed stiff-legged and dripping to the
cloakroom. Where his tentative good mood instantly began to slide. Fat
Sam the lorry wash man was in there holed up out of the rain. It was
Fat Sam's job to keep the trucks clean, he was a few months shy of
retirement and nobody would miss him. He was a lazy fat toad who stank
of farts and cigars, and being stuck in a closed room with him without
a can of Glade was torture.
"Afternoon Henry," sarcasm dripped from his smoky voice.
"Piss off."
Fat Sam thoght this was hilarious, and went whooping off in gales of
phlegmy laughter. The raucous cackling soon turned into a rattly
sounding cough, which then ended in a monumental burp, and the meaty
smell of sausage filled the small room.
"Jesus Sam, you're fuckin' vile, can't you piss off and find some work
to do?"
Fat Sam restarted his chesty giggles, and Henry was ready to bolt if
they ended in another sausage smelling oral fart. Instead his chuckles
died away to a soft rattle as he struggled wheezing to his feet.
Physical exertion took the fun out of laughing.
"Yeah, suppose I better earn me wage," he said, parting the blinds and
peering through the grimy window. "It's stopped raining. See Henry, a
bit later and you woulda missed the rain."
He paused at the door with a porky hand on the handle. "Oh, and Henry,
Adolf's got the raving 'ump this morning," Sam smiled as he opened the
door. "The new bloke 'aint turned up, and with you late again, he's out
there grafting. He flashed his brown teeth, and said "Have a nice day,"
in a terrible American accent. Letting the door slam shut, and leaving
behind the faint whiff of farts and sausage.

Henry shrugged out of his sodden jeans and slipped into a pair of
greasy green jogging bottoms. They were curled in the corner like an
abandoned pet, unloved and unwanted. The too long legs and baggy crotch
left him looking like a drunk circus midget. But he didn't care, they
where dry, and that was the closest thing he'd had to good luck this
morning.
He crept from the cloakroom and sloped past the open office door,
glancing in furtively as he did so. Adolf was there, and he appeared to
be in the midst of an argument with a foriegn truck driver. They were
both gesturing with enthusiasm and Adolf's normally pallid cheeks had
two bright points of colour. An ominous sign. His jet black hair was
was immaculately side parted and oiled into position, and as always his
little round spectacles seemed to attract the office lights, making it
almost impossible to follow his line of sight. Henry hurried past,
shoulders sloped, waiting for the screech of his name. When it never
came, he crossed the yard at a jog, grimly holding the bottoms, and
disappeared into the draughty warehouse. He grabbed a ladder and
propped it against the rusting container lorry that he assumed belonged
to the irate driver in Adolf's office. Climbed the ladder and began
struggling to remove the tarpaulin which kept the goods dry. After a
minute or so he was fully engrossed. His breath plumed in the frigid
January air as he battled with knots and tugged absently at his newly
acquired trouser ware. Henry didn't hear the approaching footsteps, and
when Adolf shrieked "HENRY!" from the bottom of the ladder, he was
startled, badly.
Henry jerked his head toward the sound of the voice. The ladder
lurched to the left. Henry compensated for this by yanking it savagely
to the right. This turned out to be a bad idea. The ladder tottered
to-and-fro, deciding on how to deal with the lump perched on top like a
fat pigeon in a rose bush.
With decision made, Henry plummeted earthwards.
In real time it took no longer than a second for Henry to reach
ground. But in dream time-which was where Henry found himself-it took
much longer. He groped feebly at the container, frowning as his hands
skittered on the slick surface. The words ZIEGLER DIE TRANSPORTKETTE
floated dreamily past, he saw the paint was blistered and bubbled on
the letter N, and he wondered why. He even managed a bewildered glimpse
down, and registered the upturned face of a horrified Adolf. His mouth
set in a shocked and comical O of surprise. His pasty face still
showing two high spots of colour.
From that point on, everything happened in a bit of a rush. Like a
high tech video player inching forward frame by frame, then, being
shoved rudely to fast-forward.
He recalled a definate "UMMPH," from Adolf, then the metallic clang of
the ladder as it bounced off his head. This was quickly followed by a
sharp odour, then the smiling face of an angel, complete with halo
filling his vision.
Henry wasa bit dissapointed with heaven. His arse was cold, his head
throbbed, and he could still hear the insect drone of traffic. And when
the angel said, "Blimey mate, you took a bit of a bang there," in a
broad Cockney accent, Henry suspected that he probably wasn't dead. The
ruddy faced paramedic leaned forward and felt the bump on Henry's head.
And his halo turned into an under powered warehouse light.
"Still, not as bad as yer mate there," he said, pointing with his chin
toward the pole axed Adolf. He was covered with a red blanket and was
disappearing into the back of an ambulance. Fat Sam and the foriegn
truck driver watched with barely concealed grins.
Henry groaned , what a nightmre. Adolf would make his life a misery,
providing he lived of course.
"You're okay mate, nuffin' more than a bump on the 'ead," the
paramedic said, pulling Henry to his feet. "Might be best to go 'ome
though, must 'ave been a bit of a shock."
"Yeah," Henry said, rubbing his lump.
"Mind you, the other bloke must 'ave had a bigger shock, seeing you
hurtle towards him like Superman. Still, least it was a soft landing,
eh?"
Fat Sam appeared at the paramedic's shoulder like the Angel of Death,
looking like he wanted to laugh but wouldn't quite dare.
"Come on Henry, I'll run you home."
"Can we have the windows open?"
"What?"
"Forget it."

Fat Sam's car was death trap and Henry feared for his life. It was a
green ten year old Audi with a Millwall F.C sticker in the back window.
It rattled and clunked, and every time he used the brakes he had to
fight with the steering wheel to keep it in a straight line. The
windshield was spider-webbed, and the exhuast belched black fumes at
every pull away.
Fat Sam managed to stay quite for about thirty seconds before bursting
into laughter.
"Oh Henry, that was funny, it looked like he had his head stuck up
your arse," Fat Sam wheezed.
"Funny? I could have killed him, how's that funny?"
"Nah, he woke up in the ambulance, thought he was on holiday." he
said, lighting a cigar. "He ordered a paella and told the nurse she was
too fuckin' fat for a bikini."
Henry smiled, it felt strange on his face and he realized it was his
first of the day. Fat Sam's clock was one of the few things in the car
that actually worked, but he still found it hard to believe that it was
only 9.30. What a morning, Jesus. And it wasn't finished yet. He still
had to get out of this rolling shit heap in one piece.
Fat Sam was quite for a bit, which suited Henry. The silence only
broken when he lifted his arse off the seat occasionally to let out a
fart.
They shuddered to a halt outside Henry's house, Fat Sam wrestling with
the wheel as the brakes made a hideous grinding noise.
"Cheers Sam, what hospital were they taking him to?" Henry said,
grabbing his coat and opening the door with his shoulder.
"St. Andrews...listen, gimme a ring later, if you're coming tomorrow,
i'll pick you up." Fat Sam said, exploring a nostril with his thumb,
then scrutinizing the findings.
"Nah, it's alright, i'll get the bus."
Fat Sam sneezed and said; "Fuck ya then."
Henry slammed the door at the second attempt, then walked up his path
fishing for his keys. He would enjoy the rest of the day; put his feet
up, watch a video, maybe get Joan to knock him up a couple of bacon
sandwiches.
"JOAN..JOAN." He called, hanging up his coat. He could hear the muted
sounds of the T.V coming from the bedroom. Surely the lazy cow wasn't
still in bed. No wonder the place looked a tip, he thought,
meanly.
He kicked off his grubby work boots and plodded up the stairs. When he
reached the top he could hear the hissing of the shower, so at least
she was up. He stopped with his pudgy hand on the bedorom door and
called back over his shoulder, "Turn the bloody telly off if you're not
watching it,"
The hurried sounds of the taps being turned off and the shocked yelp
of his name gave him a little twist of pleasure. Gave her a turn.
Good.
He pushed the smelly jogging bottoms down to his knees and opened the
door, his tiny smile froze. The bathroom door swung open and his naked
wife juddered to a halt behind him, a breathy "Henry.." escaped her
lips.
Henry's jogging bottoms nestled softly at his ankles as he stared
dumbly at Victor lying naked on his bed. Drinking tea from his
favourite mug. And eating his chocolate Hob-Nobs.
Henry gazed mildly at Victors large Adams Apple moving like a hamster
in a pillow case, and saw rather than heard him say, "Good morning
Henry."

THE END